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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29006265">Old looks good on you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleDuDemon/pseuds/CamilleDuDemon'>CamilleDuDemon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Childhood Memories, Domestic, First Meetings, Flashbacks, Fluff, Haircuts, M/M, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Winter At Kaer Morhen, just two big soft old men reminiscing about the past, mentions of baby witchers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:20:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,172</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29006265</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleDuDemon/pseuds/CamilleDuDemon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“You need a haircut.”<br/>Still caught in the last glow of his orgasm, Eskel merely lifts his languid, golden gaze on Geralt, the echo of an old, fading memory gently buzzing in the back of his skull. <br/>It had something to do with hair, but he can’t really grasp it, not when his mind is still so pleasantly foggy.<br/>“You think so?”<br/>Geralt chuckles quietly, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind his ear.<br/>“Yeah. You’re starting to look like a vagrant, you know?”<br/>Eskel rumbles, nuzzling his nose into the soft, warm crook of his neck.<br/>“And you’re starting to sound awfully like Vesemir”, he sighs, desperately chasing the last tendrils of the afterglow and giving up as soon as he realizes that the small post-orgasmic bliss is gone forever.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Old looks good on you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Sit still, young 'un. I don't want to cut off your ear."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Eskel does what he's told, sitting straight on the uncomfortable chair and trying his best not to squirm away from the rusty pair of scissors that's about to give him the first proper haircut of his entire life. His ma would be proud to see how nice and obedient he is, even though she's not watching. A small smile blooms on his soft, plump lips and the old man with the scissors gives him a quizzical look.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"What's your name?", he asks, after shaking his head and cutting off the fist thick chunk of dark, knotted hair. "No one has bothered to tell me, even though you've arrived...this morning, I assume? With Aldemar?"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Eskel nods, even though he's not sure that the funny looking guy with red hair and an unkempt, equally bright red beard is called Aldemar. Still, it would be extremely impolite of him to contradict an elder. Then, quietly, he adds "Eskel, sir. My name is Eskel."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The man grunts softly under his breath.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"There's no sir here at Kaer Morhen, kid. Call me Vesemir -- or master Vesemir if you prefer. I'd prefer you to address me as Vesemir only, though, but it's your choice in the end."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yes, Vesemir."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Another chunk of hair falls on the floor. Eskel isn't sure he's happy with that. In his village, no boy is allowed to have his hair cut until he becomes a man, and he's not a man yet, not by his people's standard by the way.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"You know how old are you, perhaps? It's okay if you don't, stay still, don't look at me like that. There's no wrong answer for the moment, I can assure you."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Eskel sighs. The pointy scissors bruise his scalp, but he barely registers the scratch. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Ma says I was born on the same night king Addyrn died", he answers, shrugging gingerly as another lock gets cut away. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"King Addyrn -- ah, he was still alive a decade ago. I've slayed a forktail for him now that I think about it. So, you're younger than you look, kid. You're very tall for your age, given that you aren't even ten years old."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The boy wonders if he should thank him for saying that he's tall. He doesn't, though, even if his stomach flutters with pride at his words. He's tall, well-built and strong, just like his father, who hunts and fishes and knows how to swing a battle axe to keep bandits and vagrants away from their farm in the heart of the mountains. The farm -- some bad feeling he has managed to shove deeper and deeper inside his mind stirs and he's stricken by a sudden wave of sadness. He really wants to ask Vesemir if he'd ever, maybe, perchance, get back home to his ma and their goats but, truth to be told, he's too scared to hear a 'no' as an answer. He's just -- not ready yet for that. He's a child, after all, and even though no one has told him yet, he's one of the youngest boys to be brought to the fortress, at least in a while. Coyly, he asks "What's a forktail?", instead. Vesemir chuckles. His calloused fingers brush through Eskel's now short hair.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"A draconid", he replies, matter of factly, as if Eskel should know what a draconid is -- which he doesn't, for the record. "You're almost good to go. Sit still for a while, I've got to fix a couple of things."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There's nothing to fix, actually. Vesemir is so bad at cutting hair Eskel's head is now a complete, utter mess, and that's the primary reason why Kaer Morhen lacks so tragically in mirrors -- some boys would literally riot if they were truly aware of how bad their hair looks after being chopped and butchered by Vesemir's rusty scissors. For the moment, though, the young boy doesn't complain and lets the older man do his job. He even starts humming at some point, scissors cutting mercilessly and more hair scattering on the dusty floor, until the little head he’s gently cradling looks more or less like a marred battlefield, which means that he won’t have to deal with fleas soon and that the loose, dark strands won’t interfere with his training session, or need to be frequently washed with vinegar and herbs to keep it clean for a reasonably long amount of time.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Eskel lets out a faint whimper when Vesemir’s large hand brushes against the small cut on his scalp, but he doesn’t whine, his pa wouldn’t be proud of him if he was to whine like a crybaby. Yet, tears prick at the corner of his curious, big, vivacious eyes, and the old man strokes his little head again, more carefully this time.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Feels like one of papa’s rough caresses, but it’s quite not. Eskel bites back at his tears and curls his long legs a little so he can dangle them in the dusty air.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Don’t cry, young ‘un. You’ll get used to the place and-”. The old man stops abruptly, his hand still tangled in what’s left of Eskel’s mop of hair, and Eskel twists his neck at an odd angle to shoot him a curious look. Vesemir’s face has gone all soft and mushy, languid almost, and there’s a small smile lingering on his lips, partly hidden by his well-kept graying mustache. “Geralt, come in”, he says, and Eskel knits his little brows as the door creaks open silently, revealing the little eavesdropper behind. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s not fair! I never manage to sneak up on you! At least you pretended, once!”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The little eavesdropper slips in, a pout plastered on his lips, and he petulantly slumps on a stool next to Eskel.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Don’t be silly, Geralt, you can’t sneak up on me. Now be good and show Eskel around, will you?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Eskel feels intimidated at first by Geralt’s scrutinizing gaze, his slender fingers poking at him as if he was some sort of oddity picked up from the woods. He remembers with a pang all the weird trophies he brought home whenever he ventured far in the woods with his pa, the tiny bones of the dead birds picked out clean by the wolves and the foxes, rusty arrowheads, funny leaves, shiny rocks -- will he ever do the same again? The faintest hint of a sob makes his bony chest shudder, but again he resists the urge of crying and he lets this Geralt do whatever thing he’s doing, tugging at his sleeves and smelling him like a wild animal.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“His tunic is odd”, he points out, looking at Vesemir as if the old man has got all the answers. Vesemir sighs softly, petting his auburn, curly hair.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“He comes from the mountains. They dress odd.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“The mountains! The Blue Mountains?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Vesemir shakes his head.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“No. He’s traveled long before coming here, Geralt. Now, show him around. I’ve got things to do.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt nods obediently. Eskel is not sure that he likes this boy, he’s different from any other boy of the village, and he’s weird and he does weird things. Weird people scare him, like the village fool with only one eye or the old woman who used to live alone in the woods, near a pond; she cast dirty glances towards all of the villagers and spat to the ground when they greeted her. Still, he doesn’t flinch away when Geralt grips his wrist with enthusiasm and yanks him on his feet. He’s smiling, and ma says that people who smile are rarely dangerous or evil. So he shrugs his fear away, giving in to the sheer excitement radiating from the auburn-haired boy, letting him drag him around the halls and rooms, barely catching a breath while telling him stories and names.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Your hair looks funny, you know that?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Eskel shrugs. Geralt drags him to another room, babbling endlessly.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe ‘weird’ doesn’t necessarily mean that he must stay away, after all…</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You need a haircut.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still caught in the last glow of his orgasm, Eskel merely lifts his languid, golden gaze on Geralt, the echo of an old, fading memory gently buzzing in the back of his skull. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had something to do with hair, but he can’t really grasp it, not when his mind is still so pleasantly foggy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You think so?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt chuckles quietly, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind his ear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. You’re starting to look like a vagrant, you know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eskel rumbles, nuzzling his nose into the soft, warm crook of his neck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you’re starting to sound awfully like Vesemir”, he sighs, desperately chasing the last tendrils of the afterglow and giving up as soon as he realizes that the small post-orgasmic bliss is gone forever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>High on such a kind of energy Eskel has never experienced after sex, Geralt springs to his feet, gloriously naked, his skin glistening with sweat making him even more beautiful in the dim light of the half-consumed candles. Just like the old times, he yanks him on his feet too - sure, Eskel could resist him now that he’s bulkier and a tad heavier, more ripped than lean, but he has no interest in playing that part - and he just tells him “Let’s give you a haircut, come on”.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Again, he hears himself huff out a chuckle, but he must admit that Geralt is right, his hair is long past a length that suits him. Unlike Geralt, who could look like a flawless, ancient god of beauty even with a haystack on his head, the mid-shoulder length doesn’t compliment his face, making his jaw look even stronger and the sharp angles almost elven-like. Which, nowadays, isn’t exactly ideal, with a renewed surge of hate against nonhumans rising almost everywhere on the bloody Continent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sit”, Geralt commands, dragging an old chair across the room and tinkering with basins and pitchers and towels. He does even give a shot of igni to revive the dying flames in the fireplace, though bad lighting isn’t a problem for their mutated eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eskel scoffs while sitting on the uncomfortable chair, his arms neatly folded in his lap as he watches the hypnotic dance of the flames and picks up Geralt’s nervous footfall pacing down the hallway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What, forgot your scissors?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hears a stifled snort, and a door being rapidly opened and then slammed shut. Then Geralt is back, and his nose twitches almost reflexively at the pungent smell of vinegar and crushed basil leaves that hits his nostrils.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please, tell me that it’s not that fucking concoction again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt places a kiss atop of his head, fleeting and gentle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, it is. And Vesemir has been right all along, it may smell bad, but at least it keeps your hair fresh longer. Besides -- the good old scent of childhood, right?”, he jokes. “Tilt your head back. I need to soak your hair first.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eskel complies obediently, letting the warm water do its magic on the tangled mass of his hair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“At least you won’t butcher my head like Vesemir used to do…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now he remembers something about the old, faded memory. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Him, sitting obediently while Vesemir cuts off chunks of hair in a, so to say, very raw way, and a little version of Geralt watching from afar. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An easy smile comes to his lips, and it widens as soon as Geralt’s skilled fingers start rubbing his scalp, cleaning thoroughly before massaging the disgusting concoction on his overgrown hair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You like it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hums appreciatively, leaning into Geralt’s touch, encouraging him to keep rubbing at his scalp and temples even when it’s more than obvious that it’s not gonna get any cleaner.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmmh. Vesemir was definitely rougher…”, he reminisces, and Geralt lets out an amused huff in response.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Vesemir hasn’t befriended all the barbers that I have befriended, Eskel”, he replies, starting to make a decent work of the many knots in Eskel’s hair with an old comb.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, I see. Your natural disposition towards people can be useful, then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up, now. I’ve got to concentrate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eskel snorts quietly, letting his shoulders relax as the scissors glide with a steady precision, trimming away the excess hair. A natural instinct would have him rush for his sword at the feeling of a sharp blade so close to the back of his neck, but he trusts Geralt with his very life so his flight or fight response doesn’t get triggered. No immediate threat. Just Geralt taking care of him, casually whispering the lyrics of an old song under his breath while he’s at it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Vesemir was efficient during the annual haircut day. He didn’t sing. Or perhaps he did, he hummed tunes under his breath while brandishing those damn rusty scissors- </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey. I remembered a thing…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt’s nonsensical humming stops, but the trimming doesn’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That is?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing, just -- we were very little. We hadn’t had the Grasses yet. You put up a fight because you had decided that you wanted to grow your hair.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, yeah, I remember. Vaguely, though. The only thing I remember clearly enough is the pain of master Barmin’s belt against my butt that night, right after dinner”, he recalls, and Eskel can picture his lopsided smile, tinted with a hint of nostalgia even for things like corporal punishments. They both miss Kaer Morhen as it was before the raid so much that even reminiscing about being lashed with a belt feels almost sweet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See why I’ve never let mine grow?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah, don’t bullshit me. It wasn’t because you feared Barmin’s belt. I can quote you, you once said you didn't want to look like an elf and take an arrow in the back because of your looks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When did I say that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hears Geralt smack his lips loudly, alongside the almost imperceptible thud of another chunk of his hair falling to the ground.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know for sure. Maybe a few years after we had set off for the first time. We were young, though. So fucking inexperienced.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. Killing drowners for fun wasn’t exactly -- educational”, he cackles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another thud. Another chunk of hair. Geralt’s warm breath so fucking close to his ear as he works on his sides.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And harpies. Don’t forget harpies. I still have a mark somewhere.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eskel furrows his brows, trying to remember that episode in particular.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“On the small of your back, I think. The harpy had literally kicked you in the butt with her talons -- shit we were still boys. Vesemir yelled at you because your shirt was shredded beyond repair…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, it wasn’t my fault. It was fucking midsummer, what was I supposed to wear, a leather gambeson?” They both end up laughing, trying to keep it quiet enough not to disturb Lambert’s already troubled sleep too much. Then Geralt clears his voice and says “Stay still, I’m almost done.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eskel does. He remembers their first harpy vividly now, her shiny black wings and the horrible shrieks she made while wriggling on the ground, bested by two young witchers in training. They were something like fourteen years old, freshly mutated, eager to strike down whatever monster dared to crawl around Kaer Morhen even if they weren’t ready yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s still there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eskel hums curiously, drawn back to the present by the hint of surprise in Geralt’s voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The scar from your first haircut.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sighs fondly at the memory, slouching more comfortably in the chair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We met that day, you remember? We met for the first time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You looked like a stray cat.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you looked like a tiny version of a starved madman.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt fakes indignance, but he places a kiss right above Eskel’s ear nonetheless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Done. A nice haircut, if I may say so”, he compliments himself, giving one last fix to his masterpiece with the comb. It’s easier to undo the many tangles that tend to form into Eskel’s hair now. He runs a hand down the considerably shorter length of his freshly cut hair and he nods, satisfied.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Feeling good?”, Geralt asks then, a grin plastered on his pale lips, shears and basin now forgotten in a corner of the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eskel can’t help but grab him by the waist and place a kiss on his taut, firm stomach, gently scratching the marred skin with the tip of his sharp teeth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Feels good, thanks.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit, we’re getting old, aren’t we?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eskel cracks an eye open, gingerly, giving his pupils enough time to adjust to the bright light of another greyish dawn. Geralt’s limbs are messily tangled to his, while he’s comfortably sprawled on his chest, slightly crushing him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite the soreness in his ribs, Eskel doesn’t feel like moving just yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt sighs, lazily propping himself up on his elbows and Eskel, with the outmost disregard towards the discomfort in his chest, whines petulantly at the abrupt loss of contact.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean, all that reminiscing about the past while I was fixing your hair to make you look like a decent fellow who doesn’t like tavern brawling and gambling -- it’s the senility setting in, right? Fucking gross. I’m not ready to fall asleep while reading like Vesemir does.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eskel isn’t able to suppress a very amused giggle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You realize we’re almost marking our -- what, eightieth? We’re fucking old, Geralt. Crones, I dare say.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yeah, witchers are made to be...durable, so to say, but they aren't meant to live long. Eskel knows how much it annoys Geralt to think about himself as an old man, but they are those of the few lucky ones who got past their first years, so getting old is kind of inevitable.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck you”, it’s the polite answer Geralt groans back, headbutting him in the chin childishly enough that he looks at least ten years younger.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eskel shakes his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey”, he ends up saying, lifting Geralt’s face so he can place a small kiss on the corner of his already ravaged mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes his sweet time admiring the sheer beauty of Geralt’s regular features, from the curve of his nose to the perfect arch of his brows and his strong chin, adorned with a rough stubble he’ll soon shave. It’s true that they’re getting old, though. The corners of Geralt’s eyes crumple in the most appealing way when he smiles or winces. He kisses the bridge of his nose and smooths away the two twin wrinkles on his forehead, those that stick out when he’s concentrating hard, brooding or frowning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Whatever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even in a century, perhaps, if they’ll end up living such a long life, Geralt will be the most beautiful of them all, dashingly good-looking against all odds, against time itself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Old looks good on you”, he whispers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt merely scoffs at his statement.</span>
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  <span>Eskel can’t help but smile, letting the snowy daylight flood the room with its bright light, tightening his grip around Geralt’s waist enough to make it clear that they’re not going to leave the bed anytime soon.  </span>
</p>
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